Cryptobiosis
by Tawnia
Summary: Sequel to 'Substitute'. The flame of love is now just a cold loneliness, as Gray struggles to come to terms. "As soon as forever is through, I'll be over you."
1. Chapter 1

It might be advisable to read _Substitute_ – which is a prequel of sorts to this story – before reading this as it might make more sense then. Readers who have been waiting/wishing for a sequel to _Substitute_, you've got your wish! This chapter is only about a thousand words or so because, _because_. Subsequent chapters will be of this length, but may be longer according to the situation featured in the chapter. I'm saying all these rubbish only because I've never written such short chapters before x3

**Expect:** Loads and loads of angst, self-harm, mature themes.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own. The image used as the story cover does not belong to me.

* * *

**Cryptobiosis**

**I**

* * *

_~c~_

_[kriptəˌbīˈōsis]  
__1. (Biology) a state of suspended animation entered by an organism in response to adverse environmental conditions__  
__2. (Medicine) a state in which the signs of life of an organism have weakened to the point where they are barely measurable or no longer measurable_

_~c~_

Leaves crackle underfoot as night slowly sinks in, swathing the forest in darkness. It's all stillness and a sense of lonely existence as he walks aimlessly, weaving laboriously through trees and bushes and trudging through puddles of muddy rainwater, uncaring of the dirty water that sloshes against his shoes and into his socks. His fingers brushes the leaves of a plant and comes away with water droplets clinging to the 's cold.

Did it rain?

He doesn't know.

There must be a reason why the entire forest is sodden and dripping with water, though.

He concludes it must have rained.

Then why was he not aware when it did?

He pauses and frowns into the dim depths of the forest that stretches as far as his eye can see, although right now he is unable to see much. He rubs wearily at his eyes and is surprised to feel a warm wetness smear across his eyelids and the edges of his eyes with the action. When he curiously gives the unknown liquid on his knuckles an experimental lick, he is mildly disgusted to taste its saltiness.

From the watery streaks on his cheeks, he deduces that it must have rained earlier.

Distracted for a moment, he stumbles and almost trips over a rain-slicked branch. Cursing, he steadies himself and glares at the present cause of his ire. It lies where his foot has kicked it, darkened and soggy by the amount of water it has soaked in.

He frowns again, more fiercely this time. It feels like something is missing. Like he missed something.

How did he miss the fact that it had been raining?

His clothes squelch wetly against the absent-minded press of his fingers as he pinches and bunches the damp edges of his shirt together. He gapes down at the water leaking from the fabric. His clothes are all wet! He casts an accusing glance at the sky, seeking overcast, gray clouds he could focus his irritation on.

But instead, what he sees are the faint twinkling of the stars and the faint, yellow-ish gleam of the moon hidden behind a cloud.

Wha–

It's night-time?

But–

When? When did it become night?

He fiddles with the threads at the ends of his shirt as he tries to think, rolling the unraveling threads between the pads of his fingers as he stares out unseeingly into the darkness in front of him. Finally, he gives up and continues on his way. Although, it is too dark and he walks on blindly through the forest in steadily growing darkness. He wishes his surroundings are brighter so he may see more clearly whatever it wants to see.

(And _who_ever he wants to see.)

Gradually, he becomes aware of a faint, blue glow beneath his line of sight. That catches his full attention, drawing his gaze down to the source of the light. To his surprise, the icy-blue glow emanates from within his hands. There is an unearthly blue-lit circle hovering above his palms, sketched through with strange symbols along its circumference. He inspects it with great curiosity, and thinks it gives off just the tiniest bit of coldness.

When he has bored of the strange, blue light, his gaze drifts over the thread-bare condition of his clothes. It's almost too dark to see, but he can make out the worn fabric, barely. Why are his clothes this tattered? And beneath his clothes, there are areas of dull, throbbing pain where his fingers make contact with. Peeling the edge of his shirt back, he discovers that the fabric has not only been damp with water, but also sticky with blood.

How...?

He cannot remember acquiring any wounds.

Again, he feels like he's missing something.

And it brings to question what may have happened to land himself in such a state.

Whatever he's missing, he has an unmistakable feeling that it is the answer to his question.

...so what was he missing?

Something?

(Or some_one_?)

He thinks and thinks and tries to think some more, but... whatever it is keeps slipping out of his grasp just as his mind manage to brush against them. He can only remember hurt and pain and endless wandering. His thoughts are going in circles, just like how he has been for as long as he can remember. Some time passes before he realises his legs ache from over-use, so he clumsily lowers himself on to the damp grass and carefully crosses his legs. Then he leans against a tree trunk and looks back up at a brightening sky and wonders when he missed the moon leaving.

* * *

That was... strange. I hardly ever write in present tense, so I'm not too used to doing so. Anyhoo, I don't know if you guys like it, but I'm eager to see what else is in store for Gray here. Review if you like it!


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the second chapter to this strange chaptered story I'm currently all for. It's not my best, frankly, but I'm still experimenting with this style of writing.

* * *

**Cryptobiosis**

**II**

* * *

Gray falls asleep around mid-noon, where the sun is at its zenith and the forest is at its brightest.

He doesn't like that.

He prefers the comforting gloom that encompasses his vision, his being, his very soul, with darkness.

That way, he cannot see what he's missing.

(Or _who_.)

And that's a good thing.

Even if it does cause him to constantly trip and fall.

* * *

He dreams in monochrome.

Mostly.

Those strands of pink really stand out.

* * *

When he awakens, he finds that there's more rain in his eyes and they've streaked down his cheeks in tiny rivulets. The water droplets follow the curve of his cheekbone to nestle close to the lobe of his ear. There is much annoyance as he wipes the droplets away with the back of his hand and rises to his feet.

It's sundown by now, and he raises his eyes gladly to the distant sunrise, half-hidden by the multitude of trees surrounding him. The chattering and tweeting of the forest birds alternate between being a soothing background noise and an annoyance. It depends on his mood, actually. Right now he feels rather hungry. Even though he's slept for the better part of the day, he still feels unusually exhausted. He's aching all over and his mind and movements are slow, delayed. He's beginning to be more conscious of the time lapses that he experiences every now and then, although it's now with decreasing frequency that they occur.

He's beginning to recall, bits and pieces, of the past.

In order not to, he busies himself with finding some berries to take the edge off his hunger.

His wounds need the proper supplements to heal faster.

But that isn't what he concerns himself with, with regards to the mysterious injuries he has sustained.

He's fascinated with the luridly crimson gashes streaked over various parts of his body, and the bruises that bloom like flowers over his skin.

They intrigue him.

And he likes how much it hurts.

He likes how it hurts so much that it overshadows the strange ache in his chest.

It feels good.

Liberating.

He decides that maybe he's addicted to this feeling.

It _is_ oddly relieving.

So when he's done picking the little, purplish-black globes of berries off branches and cramming them hungrily into his mouth, he wipes his hands on his shirt and goes off in search for the source of this good feeling.

* * *

He follows his instinct, and maybe consults the new memories that are steadily trickling back into his mind, in order to fulfill this important quest.

It takes maybe half a day of wandering and reorienting and remembering, but finally-

It's familiar.

This place is familiar.

It's also associated with familiar emotions of hurt and pain and heartbreak and he now knows what's that–

–something–

(–some_one–_)

–that he has been subconsciously seeking.

And he realises that these emotions are familiar only because he has been experiencing them all these while.

He makes his way to the middle of the evening-darkened clearing by the stone-ringed fire pit and stares wonderingly into the sodden, gray ashes heaped in the center. He tracks his gaze down and to the side of the log that's situated nearby and he discovers the shredded remnants of a yellowing leaf.

And that's familiar, too. It's just so... so _familiar_.

The ache in his chest intensifies.

The feeling is agonisingly uncomfortable, so he focuses on digging his fingernails into one of the many wounds littering his body and relishes the subsequent pain.

Because, that's not what he came here for. He didn't come here to make this maddening ache worse.

He wants it gone.

But his fingernails are not enough.

He _needs_ more.

He wants to _forget_.

There's a sudden, hushed silence save for the rustling of the grass and leaves beneath him as he rises on his haunches and leans forwards a little. His hands sift through grass and leaves as he reaches out, seeking. There's a moment of scrabbling before his fingers close greedily around his tool of liberation, his fingernails scraping against jagged stone.

A sigh escapes him, soft and almost relieved.

Then there's nothing but him and the star-scattered nightsky as he forgets.

* * *

Hmm. What do you think is happening?


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter might be a tad confusing. And expect abuse of single-sentence paragraphs.

* * *

**Cryptobiosis**

**III**

* * *

It's been raining again, he realises, as he awakes with water droplets pooled at the edges of his eyes and sliding down the side of his face.

But when he sits up and breathes in, there is not a hint of the scent of fresh, damp grass that follows a rainy instance, nor were there raindrops on any surface. He casts a puzzled gaze around at the evidently dry clearing that he has spent the night in. The bewilderment he feels multiplies when he touches a finger to the side of an eye and the tip comes away glistening with water. Is it even water? He gives the liquid a tentative lick.

It's salty.

He spends a good part of the morning just sitting cross-legged and pondering the strange liquid and its persistent existence in his eyes. He remembers, clearly, that when he fell asleep the previous night it was with perfectly dry eyes. He drops his gaze to the droplet on the tip of his finger and admires how the morning light seems to illuminate small swathes of its surface. From this angle, it looks like a morning star balanced daintily on the pad of his finger. He loses himself in the pure ethereality of the droplet as it succumbs to evaporation, and even when it is gone he sits and stares blankly ahead.

He's at a lost of what to do.

He's found what he's been looking for, but the empty feeling inside of him remains.

And despite having slept for hours, he still feels drained.

Devoid of emotions.

It's only when sunbeams beat down harshly on his bowed back and neck that he rouses enough to climb lethargically to his feet. As he does, something slips past his fingers and thuds to a stop in the grass beside him. He blinks, momentarily stilled with surprise. Then he looks down. There, at his feet, lies a jagged stone smeared in a dark red substance. It's familiar. He crouches down, unsteadily, and tentatively runs his fingers over the rough, gritty surface of the stone. His fingers come away stained with the pigment. He brings his trembling fingers to his nose and inhales the scent of iron.

* * *

It isn't enough.

He sags against the tree trunk he had been leaning against. His knees buckle from the effort of holding himself up. He feels weak.

The sanguinary clearing is making his head spin.

But it isn't satisfactory.

(He wants more.)

He wants a roaring in his ears, a pressure enclosing every inch of him, as he tumbles into oblivion.

(He needs more than this.)

The ache in his chest is amplifying into a sensation akin to a knife spearing through his flesh.

The longer he lingers in this clearing, the deeper he falls... and at the end the impact will crush him.

He staggers to his feet. He wants to get away. Has to get away.

He's seeking salvation once more, in a different form.

He stumbles over the stone that's now drenched in mind-numbing crimson. When he straightens and begins to run, he can feel the liquid spreading along his soles and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

* * *

Every breath exhaled is snatched away by the speed at which he is going.

He's running like the wind.

And even this feels oddly familiar.

It's making his heart pound and his blood gush from all the open, jagged wounds splitting his skin apart.

The wounds sting in the cold, biting wind that's generating from how swiftly he is running.

The path he runs is familiar.

He thinks he may have done this before.

There's nothing but the blurred landscape and the strange, now-familiar liquid streaking down his cheeks as he hurtles through the past and the present.

Images flashes by in his mind in droves, hammering at his conscience and rending his heart into smithereens.

His returning memories threaten to engulf him.

He runs until he collapses, knees hitting and dragging across soil and the occasional tufts of grass as he forces himself on.

He emerges from a copse of pine trees, on to the tiny, sandy top of a hill.

A cloud shifts and allows a golden spray of sunbeams to illuminate the breathtaking view of sprawling hills and emerald-green forests before him.

This, too, is familiar.

(But it was night at that time – he remembers darkness enclosing his sight, his mind, his heart.)

He claws his way to the edge on all fours.

His shaking limbs give way as he reaches the edge. His chin and neck collide with the small stones and pebbles beneath him.

His lips are drawn back into a snarl and his fingers dig into sand as he battles to rise to his feet.

He only manages to push himself up on his knees.

The stones dig painfully into his palms and knees and shins as he peers over the edge.

He looks down at gushing, white-foamed water.

**Familiar. It's too familiar.**

The gates to his memories crack, and shatter.

(It's a prelude–)

He's assaulted by images, emotions, words, sensations.

**Pain. Hurt. Disbelief. Anger. Fear. Loss. Denial. Heartbreak.**

They rush in like the deluge he sees beneath him and swirling his mind into a frothy mess. He sways from the mental storm in his mind, despite being on all fours. His eyes are wide and unseeing at the blue-green river below. He is unmindful of the way he's leaning forward, his shoulders and back hunched over the grass-dotted edge. His chest is constricting, clenching, collapsing in on itself. He can't breathe.

He's remembering.

He's remembering it all.

Everything he doesn't want to remember is clamoring in, filling him, driving him literally to his knees.

**But he doesn't want to remember.**

There's the clear, clattering sound of stones dislodging from between his fingers and beneath his hands as he lurches forwards in a brief, dizzying moment of vertigo and almost slips off the edge.

His eyelids spring open as he scrabbles back, chest heaving at the near-fall, his eyes bulging from their sockets as his gaze fixes upon the potential watery death beneath him with terror.

But then, for a moment, there is clarity.

**He wants to forget.**

Now all he has to do–

He closes his eyes once more and breathes in the heady scent of pine, sun, wind and water.

–is fall.

(–to an ending.)


	4. Chapter 4

Once again, expect some confusion xD

Oh! Before I forget – my eternal **LOVE** to all those lovely people who have favorited, put on alert or reviewed this story. I know I haven't been replying to the reviews... just remember you guys are still loved muchly!

* * *

**Cryptobiosis**

**IV**

* * *

They say that the shock of immersing oneself into icy water would clear the mind.

He now experiences it first-hand.

Except that it is so effective that his mind is now blank. The freezing cold water strips him bare, draining all feelings and thoughts from him and leaving him bereft of emotions. Tumbling and rolling, he lets the river currents take him where ever it may. He allows the river to swirl him around, toss him from side to side like a rag-doll, dragging him beneath the surface or spitting him out into the afternoon air.

He sighs to himself and loses himself in the mind-numbing motions of the river.

(Forgetting.)

* * *

His dreams are shrouded in darkness.

The background shifts constantly, shivering and shuddering as it alternates between two dimensions. For a while it seems that the entire universe is flat and paper-thin, a canvas of infinite proportions, and he is an insignificant, microscopic particle floating in black nothingness. The next moment there is breadth and depth to every surface his gaze passes over, a new tangibility to the space he resides in.

When he turns, he sees her.

The woman has jet-black hair, dark eyes and is achingly familiar.

She is also dead.

But it's okay, because this is a dream. Even in a dream, he is able to recognise it for what it actually is. So it's perfectly fine that the dead walks with him. Or that he walks among the dead. Whichever.

If luck will have it, he may join their ranks soon. And he will do so, gladly.

He cannot wait.

As if his thoughts has been verbalised, the edges of her lips succumb to gravity – or maybe it is disapproval, or reproach, or disappointment – and white teeth clench together tightly in an effort to rein in the words. He watches without a hint of remorse or acknowledgement – for in reality or in dream, he is now beyond caring. And why should he? Dreams are nothing but the ashes of spurned hopes and unattainable wishes and a broken past.

"This does not concern you," he says. "You have no right to care, not after what you did."

He can feel her eyes on him, watching as he stands rigidly. He is not comfortable with her presence, but he is determined to stay in this world forever. This tenebrous world where oblivion is the only path to go. He's already settling in, as if he has been here since forever. He wants this. Needs this.

If it means he will never wake up, so be it.

"No," she murmurs desperately. "You do not wish that. This is merely impulse. Spur of the moment. You cannot do this. Think of them, how they will feel–"

"Like how you _didn't_?"

She stumbles back like he has put a punch to her gut, and – and he realises that he feels inappropriately guilty.

"Please," she pleads softly after a while. "Please."

He is not a believer of the afterlife, but he has faith that he is halfway there to the final destination; soul sleep.

Eternal sleep.

For that, he is glad.

(It's the only way he can forget.)

Her head attempts a shake – meaning _no, don't_ – but she's lacking some necessary muscle and bone that makes it erratic, minute jerks from left to right, or simply a lethargic rotation of her neck which then translate upwards and pulls her head along with the motion. Coupled with the rest of what's left of her, it is a macabre sight. It makes him grimace and shudder slightly, but he finds himself strangely fascinated by the morbidity of it. He loved her, yes, and still do, but that was the state of her body when she died – or transformed herself, whichever came first.

The users of Ice Shell never die pretty, it seems.

But she understands. She understands his revulsion – he's only human – and has already forgiven him for everything, whether it is something he has done in the past, or is doing now, or will do in the future.

"It was all for you, for you–"

"I know," he says quietly. "I know."

Her eyes lose a bit of its original pain and gain a sort of tenderness as he walks to her and buries his face in her shoulder (or what's left of it anyways). It is now he feels contrite and regretful for what he has done and is doing – but these emotions stem from the past, not the present. But they both know it is all he can afford for now.

There is the comforting brush of a phantom hand through his hair and he leans into the touch – into thin air. But the intention is there and it is the intention that matters.

Her touch brings with her memories of her last moments, and it is now he knows that it must have been with encompassing agony and anguish when she gave herself up to the spell – but despite the pain she had spared her last moments to look into his eyes, to hold his gaze, and caress his blurring image with the gentlest and most of loving of smiles. The rush of furious yearning for something he can and will never have again should have crippled him...

...but he's pretty much used to the sensation by now.

"Ur," he whispers.

She draws him closer into her embrace and lets him lean into her warmth and they're still and quiet like that for a while: teacher and student... mother and child. When he finally steps back and looks up, he sees the sorrow and misery in her eyes.

"I missed... I miss you," he tells her.

Her eyes floods with tears, and she nods, reaching up to steady the both of them.

"I miss you," he says again, but this time he isn't speaking to her. "My god, I miss you. So, so much. I miss you I miss you I miss–"

Ur stands quietly as he sinks to the ground and sobs into the hem of her shirt like his heart is breaking anew. They both know the tears aren't for her. Not at all. All the tears meant for her has been expelled long ago, and the reserves for his grief at her death have dried up. But it's alright, because he has given up on everything else, not just her. He needs this release.

Even if this is merely a dream.

The lines between the past, dream and reality has blurred to the point that everything is one and the same.

The feelings are just too real to ignore, come dream or reality.

(He misses _him_.)

* * *

We'll finally be seeing more than just Gray next chapter! And... it'll make this writer really happy if people reviewed x)


	5. Chapter 5

**Unbetaed.** And it's long. So beware!

* * *

**Cryptobiosis**

**V**

* * *

_"Gr... Gra_–_!"_

Who is it? Who is it calling out with such terror in their voice?

Ur's frightened face swims before his eyes. "Awaken," she whispers. "Awaken and go to them. Go." She's slipping out of his reach. He strains to catch her, but she slides through his fingers like a ghost. "Go to them. Be at peace. My work here is done."

_"–oh god–"_

_"_–_Gr_–_ can yo_–"

_"–ake... Gr_–_!"_

The voices are distracting and annoying and _unwanted_.

Ur's gaze caresses his face one last, precious time before she disappears along with his dream-world. "Remember that I loved you... Gray."

**"Ur!"**

Was that–

He shudders into consciousness with tears in his eyes and Ur's name on his lips.

–who he was?

_Gray?_

**_"Ur!"_**

* * *

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the sky of the time when he laid it down and forgot. It's a bright, brilliant blue and scattered throughout with white, fluffy clouds. He can faintly hear the melodious sounds of birdsong, the faint rustling of leaves in the spring wind, the heady smell of pine, sun, wind and water.

He abhors it with all his heart.

He had welcomed the in-your-face cheerfulness of the day thinking he would finally be rid of everything.

It seems that fate will not let him escape until he has fully tasted the cruelty of life.

Who? Who is it who has rescued him from the swirling, watery depths of the river?

_Who?_

(He wanted to kill them.)

(He would kill them.)

Golden hair sways into his vision, followed by pale skin and soft brown eyes fraught with distress and anxiety. "Gray," says a sweet, girly voice. "Gray, oh my god. Are you alright? What happened?"

He struggles to get up. Immediately, there are hands gripping his arms and shoulders, supporting him.

"You're better now," says a cool, female voice. "All thanks to Wendy."

He thinks he hears an underlying meaning beneath it: _What the hell were you thinking?_

He shrugs their hands off.

"Gray..." comes a frightened, little voice. He tilts his head slightly and sees a young girl with long, dark blue hair. "Gray, what... what happened? Why..."

"Bring him back to headquarters first," orders the cool, female voice. "Questions later. He needs rest."

_And a good verbal thrashing_.

Who did that female think she was? Her superior behaviour irks him.

He looks around slowly, taking in the group of strangers surrounding him. They all wear expressions with varying intensities of worry and concern. They look... strangely familiar. He doesn't like that. He has learnt to fear familiarity, for it brings with it a world of pain and hurt. But one must know his enemy. He begins the task of memorising their appearances, and whatever subtle nuances or gestures they let on. If he's to be captured, he has to learn all that he can of them.

The girl to his right is blonde with brown eyes. The younger girl on his left is blue-haired with brown eyes. The stern looking girl in front of him has fiery hair, but her fringe shadows her face and he was unable to discern what hue her eyes were. There are a couple of guys standing a little away. One stand out. He's massive and muscular and has pure-white hair. There's a girl standing next to the burly man, and her hair is of the same hue as the man. Interesting. Siblings, perhaps?

And are those... winged cats?

He eyes them all warily.

The red-haired girl moves towards him, reaching out as though with intention of hauling him up.

He flinches, and she stops. Her expression hardens.

He breaks his gaze and lowers his head, withdrawing into himself, using his feet and palms to push himself backwards and away from them.

"C'mon, Gray, don't be like that." One of the men stride forwards. He has strawberry-blonde hair and dark eyes. "Let's go back to Fairy Tail, alright?"

Their voices are heart-breakingly familiar, and they're threatening to let his memories loose once more.

(No. _No._ **Forget. **He must forget.)

He shuts his eyes tightly and focuses on his own breathing, the rhythmic beating of his heart. Concentrates. And wraps those memories up with steel chains and ice. Leaves them behind and walks away forever. When he opens his eyes again, the strangers are still there, but he feels calmer now.

He's startled to see the blonde man kneeling before him and gazing at him. He feels more than a little outraged. How did this man manage to approach him without him being aware of it? He must be losing his touch.

"Get back," he warns. His voice is rough and husky from disuse. If the strangers touch him again, he'll strike. He'll protect himself. He knows, deep within him, that he has the capability and capacity to do so. His blood is already imbued with frozen ice. Then, when he has paralysed them all, he will run.

He will die by his own hands, not theirs.

"Gray..." The blonde man reaches out to him–

–and has to hurl himself out of the way, only managing to evade the deadly barrage of icicles that stab and dig deep into the ground where he has previously knelt.

"Stay away," he says softly. "Do not come near me. Do not touch me. Do not speak to me. Begone."

There is a outbreak of muttering, their voices rises, their tones filled with disbelief and fear and outrage.

They're cautious of him now. Good.

He lets himself be distracted by the white-blue light pulsing in his hands. It is... strange, but oddly comforting. Like it has been the only thing keeping him alive until now... it must be. He can feel it in his blood. The damning sub-zero iciness that is slowly but surely encompassing his blood, his flesh, his skin, turning him inside out. Most importantly, it brings relief; numbing his senses and his emotions, leaving nothing but his core of raw power.

"Gray!" The red-haired female snaps. Her voice has lost its indifference and is brimming with emotions he cannot identify. "What's wrong with you, god damnit!"

He responds instantly to the hostile tone out of instinct, his head swinging up so he can keep the girl within sight.

_Watch the stranger. Do not underestimate anyone. Be careful._

"Steady," one of the men murmurs. "If it's what I think it is..."

"How?" The female snarls, flinging a hand down. It slaps loudly against her thigh and stays there, quivering. Her entire body is shaking from repressed emotions. "How did this shit happen? What the fuck happened? Where did we mess up?"

"Erza," says the same man in a soothing manner. "It's not your fault–"

Whatever the man says next is irrelevant as he turns his attention on to the blonde girl. She has inched forward a little, her mouth down-turned and her soft brown eyes infinitely sad. "Gray, you... you remember me, don't you?"

He doesn't bother looking her in the eyes when he says, "No. Who are you?"

He hears a pained gasp as she shrinks back, a little sob slipping from her mouth.

He just wishes they will go away.

Then strong hands are clamping down on his wrists, wiry fingers digging painfully into his flesh. "Stop it, damn you! Stop fucking with us! Stop fucking with our minds!"

He carelessly slaps her hands away, leaving an glassy film of white-blue ice over her skin as his first warning. "I said not to touch me, bitch."

When will they go away?

**_"Fuck you, Gray!"_**

The ice shatters in her hands as they form fists.

"Erza–!"

The red-haired bitch is on him, punching him, kicking him, scratching at his face, her own visage twisted into an ugly snarl.

"I told you not to touch me," he murmurs, heedless of her fists sinking into his soft flesh and leaving the beginnings of bruises. He stares her straight in the eyes. "I give you one last–" He breaks off, gasping a little as a blow catches him at his jaw. Fury erupts within him and overflows into an icy-blue light that is suddenly illuminating the world.

There's a scream, high and bone-chilling. It blasts into his face and leaves his ears ringing. It's quickly followed by shouts and more screams.

The weight on him goes limp. He looks down at half-lidded eyes, and realises they are brown. He twists fire-red strands of hair round in his fingers and use them as a means to pull the female's head back. Her body follows the motion and tumbles off him. Someone rushes forwards to haul him away – and he flicks a casual hand in their direction. A jagged wall of ice rises like an avenging titan between him and them and has them crashing to the ground a distance away. He nods to himself. Much better – they were too close for his liking.

He looks up at the group of strangers and relishes their terrified expressions. He rises, lurching, to his feet, and is amused when they immediately stumble over themselves backing away. He looks down disdainfully at the bitch being dragged behind the group and absently notes that she bleeds as red as her hair. Then he runs a calculating gaze over the group, taking in their expressions of fear and horror. He smiles slightly. This feeling... he likes it. The feeling of being in control, of being the captain of the metaphorical ship that is his life... of being feared instead of fearing.

(_The one thing beloved_–)

And it's not just of the unknown.

It's of the things that is and has been familiar to him.

(_–and forever lost to him._)

It's a feeling he hasn't felt for a long, long time.

And he likes it.

And it will stay this way.

_(He will not fear again.)_

"Gray!" The blonde girl cries out. "Please–!" She breaks off with a startled shriek as an icicle whips past her, barely missing her hair by inches. It buries itself into another's body though, and the person collapses with a thud.

His smile morphs into a full-blown smirk now.

_(He will not fear again.)_

Some of the strangers break rank and run.

He nods to himself and reins in the awe-inspiring flow of power he can feel in his veins, and the blood-stained spears of ice vanish into thin air. He's more than a little impressed at himself. He now knows he has the ability to survive on his own. He will not return with this group of... familiar strangers. There's a niggling suspicion within him that to do so will be the worst decision he will ever make. He knows there's nothing but more familiarity to greet him should he follow them back to where ever they call 'headquarters'.

No, he will not return with them.

Never.

"Gray, was it? Gray." He says, turning the word around on his tongue, testing it, tasting it. It doesn't sound too bad. He decides he can live with it. Then he raises a hand. Looks them all in the eyes. Smiles. Unleashes an icy storm of death upon them.

_(He will not fear again.)_

* * *

What did you guys think? Do review!**  
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